


Cats and Dogs

by clandestineClairvoyant



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: I KNOW BIOWARE, Multi, Other, the threesome I KNOW HAPPENED
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cats and Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Really this is just keeping me busy as I work on my other projects, I'm sorry.

Fenris did not know why Hawke insisted on dragging him to these things.

The Champion of Kirkwall was in his element, flashing his white smile, gesturing towards this far off venue, or that, while regaling some of the Kirkwallian nobles with tales of his exploits. As always his drink never tipped over the edge of his glass, nor did his arm over extend itself in some clumsy fashion, no matter how much the Champion drank. Oriana played music from the hall, her harpsichord echoing from the marble flagged entryway, making ghostly music that was just pleasant enough to talk to, but not showy enough to take attentions from the guests. His manservant Boghdan had outdone himself, draping the furniture and chandeliers with gauzy tevinter imported scarves, completed with bells that jangles as guests pushed through them, and filtered the light from a stark fade-touched glow from the lamps, to to a colorful, soft glow.

_Much like Oriana herself._ Fenris thought, a little bitterly, casting a sullen look towards where he knew the maid was perched on her gilt cushion, hair in a twist, and a humble but pretty gown of red and gold. Hawke’s colors.

He’d dressed all his servants as such, and despite how well Fenris knew he treated his servants and friends, one and the same often, he felt a small frission of discomfort at the sight of a mage dressing servants in his livery.

 

It was only one of a handful of functions the Champion had had so far, mostly to raise funds, or increase good will towards him and his motley crew of a family. He was surprisingly good at it, for a lowly farm raised boy from Lothering. His hair gleamed, oiled and tamed into something resembling a leonine mane. Although, his coloring was so tanned, Fenris found himself reluctantly thinking of a panther. Dark, coiled, dangerous. But hard to peel your eyes from, smiling daggers while shaking your hand, and promising a fifth of his mine funds, or a name drop next time he found himself in the Arl’s keep. 

Meanwhile, Fenris knew for a fact that Seneschal Bran was grinding his teeth fit enough to crack, audible probably only to him and Orana, with a pleasantly puzzled looking Merrill asking him if he was alright, _really,_ would he perhaps like to try one of these little fishy things, they’re _teh-remendously_ tasty, really.

Probably from the little political tidbits Hawke was holding over him, which he was drowning in his glass of wine. Glaring daggers at Hawke over the rim the whole time over Merrill’s clueless, and well-meaning head at Hawke. Who simply looked smug as a cat in a rookery, leaning in and murmuring something to a glittering Orlesian woman who laughed in shocked amusement, immediately muffling the sound behind her fan. Hawke let his smile turn flirtatious, and retreated to sip his drink while the woman and her female companion tittered and smacked him playfully.

He’d often reach out and snag either Isabella, around the waist and coyly, the two of them posing prettily for the humans; Or Merrill, who was as harmless and enticing as a kitten, all wide eyes and small, red mouth. Anders was back against the wall, probably trying to keep that abomination of his under control in the face of so much ill-gotten frippery, and publically known injustices that funded them.

 

Fenris knew this type of kowtowing was necessary, when you lived a life such as Hawke. An apostate mage, whose freedom and condition of living, were entirely dependent on the good whim of the city and those therein.

Yes, he knew that feeling very well. Didn’t mean he had to enjoy watching the sausage be made, as the Ferelden’s were so fond of saying.

 

Fenris sourly took another long, slow, measured draught of wine, finishing his glass and wishing faintly he could stop putting up pretenses, and just return to Hawke’s study with a bottle. Or three.  
At least there he could watch the flicker of fire on the walls of the study, and make an effort at reading. The words themselves weren’t important, since he could hardly discern them much anyway, even after months of practice- Just the feeling of being warm, and full, and content, with his toes in the plush rug would be enough.

 

Merrill’s trilling, full titter came across the foyer, and Fenris tried hard not to curl his lip. She didn’t even realize what the humans thought of her- Some pretty, dainty little ornament for Hawkes arm, too silly to realize she was nothing more than a pet.

A dangerous, _deadly_ pet.

 

“Another, serah?”

“Thank you, Boghdan.” Fenris hardly glanced down at the interruption, but did give the dwarf a faint twitch of his mouth that could be considered a smile, as he carefully switched out his empty glass for a full one. Almost unbecomingly full, but he was pleased that the dwarf was thoughtful enough to remember his preference to blinding drunk, and his smile became full when the dwarf winked at him.

It was hard to be a considerate guest, when he was surrounded by curious people, their eyes pawing over him in a way that was uncomfortably familiar. But _some_ people made it bearable.

 

“Fenris, you’re looking very… Domestic. Today.”

 

Ah, at last, some people that he liked.

Aveline came up in an elegant dress of sky blue and pale, seafoam green to match her eyes. Fenris approved, and felt his face soften slightly. Her hair was done up in a coif, with a net holding it and a number of small laced flowers interspersed in it to look almost natural. She’d never be a pretty woman, but she was handsome, with the straight clean lines of her shoulders and features, and her red hair particularly bright in the light of the lamps.

Fenris gave her a small bow, and to her clear surprise, got her hand to touch to his forehead. He enjoyed the politeness of formal etiquette, when the mood struck him. And he’d had enough to drink. “I see Hawke got you to leave the sword at home.” She commented, impressively not blushing, given her fair skin.

“He should know better than to think there’s and defanging you.” Commented Donnic drily from her side, giving Fenris a firm shake of the hand as well.

“Indeed.” Fenris said, returning to his comfortable position by the wall, now much more at ease with people he knew at his back.  
Donnic was a friendly face, now that they’d both lost and gained money between the two of them many a night at the Lions Den. a mostly human bar up towards the border of High and Lowtown. It got Fenris many a dirty look, as him and Donnic got pleasantly drunk and increasingly louder amongst the many humans who seemed to resent the elvhen presence among them- Until they finally trudged home, fearful of Aveline’s disapproving stare, and swimming with excellent brandy, and good humour. And also fearful of the loud, headache inducing clatter she’d raise the next morning if she caught the slightest whiff of a hangover.

He didn’t care about the dirty looks, never had, and neither did Donnic. Not when he, as the guardsman said, was a better loser than any of the butchers and bakers that frequented. And now that his wife was Captain of the guard, none of the other guardsmen were too eager to play him. Fenris was happy to take his money, and told him so loudly and often, until Donnic became incandescent in his eagerness to prove him wrong.

They make small talk, their little trio against the wall. Varric, along with Hawke, is cutting a swath through the gentry. Surprisingly, being a dwarf is having little to no effect on Kirkwall’s opinion of Varric, as the dwarf already has a full dance card, and an invitation to three more events that year.

Merrill continues to be carted around by Isabella, the pirate’s hands getting steadily more and more inappropriate as the night and the wine goes on, with Merrill’s face flushing pleasantly. One of Varric’s hands on her back, and one of Isabella’s on… Everything else, and the abomination of a blood mage looks about ready burn up and away.

Fenris just thanks the Maker that the blasted healer isn’t there. He’s still propping up the wall in a ratty coat that’s probably his best, and looking like he wishes he was elsewhere.

 

“Is that Carver? Poor lad.”

Fenris looks up in interest, and to his surprise, finds the younger Hawke in a gaggle of women, and a few men, all of whom are vying for his attention.

“Oh lord.” Donnic mumbles, turning his head as if to avoid looking directly at some sort of disaster. Sure enough, one of the women puts a hand on his arm, and rather than look flattered, he looks supremely uncomfortable, flushing red and saying something that causes the woman to laugh rather than take her hand back. Indeed, she leans in closer, and if Fenris’s guess is right, presses her impressive décolletage to the younger Hawkes arm.

“I don’t understand-“ Fenris begins, frowning, and Aveline interrupts with a grim sort of smile, and a nod as Isabella finally abandons her place by Hawke’s and Merrill’s, side to come say hello.

 

“Hawke’s a known apostate, not to mention already with a woman. Such as she is.” Aveline adds as the woman in question comes up, and Isabella claps her companionably on the arm.

“Ta.” She plucks Fenris’ drink from his hand, ignoring the small noise of protest and draining it. “You know as well as I do that Merrill is his kitten now, much as I’m loathe to lose the man. A true hero, in bed and out of it.” She feigns a moment of dignified silence, ignoring Aveline’s disgusted snort and Donnic’s faint, indulging smile.

Boghdan shows up, and Fenris retrieves another glass of wine, slightly more guardedly than before. “Look at him, little puppy all dressed up and sent to play with the big kids.” Isabella says with a wistful sigh, more in place on a childs first day of school from his mother, than from the pirate queen.

She wipes her lip thoughtfully, eyes focusing on the younger Hawke across the room. They’re dark, her eyes, and Fenris shifts uncomfortably.  
For what reason, he’s not sure. Possibly the drink. Or possibly the familiar, heated look Isabella’s giving him over his appropriated glass. “Wonder how hard Meredith had to convince him to do _that_ , poor thing. We should send him back home with something to think about, hm?” Isabella turns to Fenris, a sly smile on her face. “Hook him up with some young, sweet thing. Maker knows he’s not going to be able to do it himself.”

Fenris looks as well, and tries to see it through her eyes, sipping his drink thoughtfully. It’s sweet, and after three glasses it’s beginning to go down like water.

He liked the younger Hawke, to some small degree. Foolish, and young. But he was a good man, loyal without being a slave to his commitments. A Templar- but Fenris had never found the Order to be a spot of contention between him and the Chantry.   
They did much wrong, but the hunting of blood magic and defense of the weak was not one of them. The more people out there hunting blood magic, and abominations, the better.

That being said, being outside of the armor suited him.

 

He was clean, something Fenris was unused to seeing after only ever seeing him when either combing the wounded coast with his brother, or scrounging through the bowels of Lowtown. Never let it be said Fenris wasn’t loyal- He went through those tunnels _bare foot._  
Generally Carver had some light coating of dust, or sweat, or even blood running down one of his ridiculously bare arms. His hair slicked into spikes where he’d sweated and run his hands through it, trailing mud, ichor, blood, or worse.

Fenris remembers a hew times where Garrett would stop everything, cast a quick frost spell into his hand, and manage to pin his younger brother down long enough to scrub ice and snow in his hair, the melt dripping into his collar as he protested and attempted to displace his slightly smaller mage sibling without permanently _damaging_ him. But some misplaced feeling of brotherly concern wouldn’t let Hawke keep maiming slavers until his brother was relatively blood free, and eventually Varric began delightedly helping, much to Carver’s protests.

 

Isabella always sighed wistfully when this happened. Fenris had never asked, and she’d simply made a few very pointed comments about large swords in his general vicinity, which Fenris had simply scowled at and ignored. They occasionally met after nights of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man, and yes, Fenris admitted quietly to himself, very determinedly not blushing, the sex was… Athletic. Isabella was a fine woman, and a better friend, and he enjoyed the time they spent together both for the way she helped him feel, and the way she made him think. They would never be exclusive, but he treasured her as much as he could treasure anything he felt would never belong to him.

 

But now the younger Hawke was washed, clad in a nobleman’s robes that were dyed a fine blue and silver. Not the Hawke colors, but a softer, less violent shade. They actually looked… Rather fine.

“Isn’t he just?” Isabella purrs in his ear in answer to an unspoken comment, and Fenris doesn’t flinch so much as let himself tense, ears flicking as Isabella’s warm breath washes over the points. Her hand very carefully rests against his inner elbow, where the silk he’s wearing is thin and warms against his skin.  
Across the room, some of the women are leaning in, talking to Carver in low voices with the occasional thrown back head and bared throat of a laugh. Ridiculously obvious.

The younger Hawke is blushing however, so it’s hard for Fenris to begrudge them. It’s very fetching.

 

“Oh, do stop tormenting him with your delusions, wench.” Aveline says with a faint curl of her lips, while Donnic simply seems immensely amused at the whole thing. Fenris glances at them both, and feels his face burn. Not that he feels there’s anything wrong with the way him and Isabella conduct themselves- He’s a free man, and one of the greatest pleasure he’s found so far in being free is being able to choose how to give and gain pleasure. It’s very different, finding other, warm willing bodies, and being able to be together. Without anyone expecting anything beyond what’s freely given.

Isabella, especially, is a _very_ free lover.

“Mmmm, delusions? I think with a little bit of persistence anything is possible, don’t you sweet?” Isabella trailed two fingers in a rather ticklish walking motion, up his arm and onto his shoulder, giving her enough leverage to lean in, grinning. “And it _is_ my birthday.”

“You said that last month.” Fenris says, with a faint smile.

“Alright then spoilsport, it’s _your_ birthday.” She says with a roll of her eyes. Her eyes are dark and widened playfully, mouth wet and part way open. And Fenris finds himself helpless in the light of her wants. As always.

“You know I don’t remember my birthday.” He says, but his mouth is smiling, and Aveline is rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath.

“Well, who’s to say it’s _not_ today then? Better to play it safe, sweet.” Isabella determines with professional ease, draining one more glass, and taking Fenris confidently by the arm.

 

“Come on. Let’s go _hunting,_ birthday boy.”


End file.
